Eighteen
by irite
Summary: Turning eighteen's a pretty big deal, right? Well, for some people more than others. Drabbles about the Avengers and most of their friends on their eighteenth birthdays.


**These are in fairly rough chronological order, a little more on that at the bottom.**

**Also, I know next to nothing about comic-verse, so I've used what I know and made up the rest. Except for one drabble, also talked about at the bottom.**

**My beta, dysprositos, is beta-tastic, and never fails to rock my socks off.**

**WARNING: slight mature themes in a couple of these drabbles.**

* * *

When Thor Odinson turned eighteen, there hadn't been much of a fuss.

Eighteen wasn't a special year in Asgard, after all. He was still very much an adolescent, would be for several decades more.

They'd had a small family dinner that evening, and Odin had presented Thor with a new practice sword to replace the off-balance one he had been using.

_That _one went to Loki, and as soon as they were done eating, Thor challenged Loki to a duel.

Indulgently, Frigga had cleared a space for them in the small sitting room, and then she and Odin had watched their sons playfight, cheering.

Thor had won, of course, and even though it wasn't his nameday, Loki had been sad.

Frigga tucked him into bed that evening, a habit she'd given up years before, in an attempt to make amends.

But Thor was happy, and Odin beamed with pride at his son.

* * *

When Loki Odinson turned eighteen the next year, there was a war on.

Asgard was fighting the Álfar, and Odin had been gone for weeks.

He managed to send a congratulatory message early enough in advance that Frigga could set it to the side of Loki's plate at breakfast that morning, and that made her pale, thin, quiet son smile.

Thor was busy, involved with his friends Fandral and Volstagg, training to join his father on the battlefield, but he made an appearance at Loki's side for the midday meal and dinner. Despite that, he spent the day with his swordmaster.

Frigga tried to compensate for the dual absences, presenting Loki with a new book of spells and a tunic she'd embroidered herself, spending the day with him, teaching him several of the spells in his new book.

He was a fast learner, and he seemed to enjoy her tutelage, but it was not the pleasant day they'd had for Thor's nameday the previous year, and Frigga regretted that.

* * *

When Steve Rogers turned eighteen, he hadn't been expecting anything at all.

He'd been unable to work earlier in the week, laid up after a vicious asthma attack. He'd even missed church, and that was something he tried to avoid at all costs.

As a result, when he'd gotten back on his feet and reported to his job (that he was lucky to have at all) two days before his birthday, he had been met with his replacement and informed that they'd hired someone more 'reliable.'

He'd been able to pick up a couple odd jobs here and there, but nothing else steady, and Bucky had paid the grocery bill that week and told Steve not to worry, not that it made much difference to Steve.

But he woke up on his birthday and Bucky was sitting on his cot against the other wall, grinning.

Usually, Bucky would've been at his job by then; he unloaded ships that came into the harbor, so he went to work before the sun was up.

Bucky explained that he'd taken the day off, and he and Steve were going to spend it together.

They went around Brooklyn, cutting up and having a good time. And Steve was happy.

But close to dinnertime, Bucky had headed back to their place. He'd dug a sock from under his mattress and proudly dumped it on the bed.

He'd been saving for weeks, he told Steve, and they were goin' out and having a fancy dinner, wherever Steve wanted to go.

Steve told him no several times, but Bucky wouldn't listen, insisted, actually, and so they wound up splitting five hot dogs between them.

That way, there was money left for Bucky.

Steve had thought he was being sneaky about not spending all Bucky's money, but on their way home for the night, Bucky had tugged Steve into the shop where Steve liked to stop and gawk at the window displays sometimes, and bought Steve his first proper sketchbook.

It had been a good day, one of Steve's favorite memories, actually.

* * *

When Peggy Carter turned eighteen, she was forced into a starched, fancy dress and made to attend one of her mother's ostentatious parties with a smile on her face.

She managed to escape shortly after they'd begun eating the cake, though, and she ran for the stables, thanking their head groom, who already had her horse saddled and waiting for her, knowing she would need the escape.

She rode hard that evening before returning home, where she insisted on grooming and stabling her horse herself.

And she absolutely had _not_ encouraged him to lip at her dress.

Her mother was horrified, but for once her father had intervened before things could get ugly, and Peggy had retreated upstairs to her room and a warm bath.

She was eighteen, but nothing was different.

* * *

When Bucky Barnes turned eighteen, the Depression was lifting and both he and Steve had steady jobs. Neither of them could take the day off, but that was just fine.

Bucky's girl had flown the coop a few weeks ago, but the way Steve'd been smirking at Bucky when he thought the younger man wasn't looking, Bucky figured Steve had something planned so he wasn't too torn up about her leaving.

Steve did have something planned, as it turned out.

He took Bucky out to a bar, and Steve paid for the drinks, the first time Bucky'd been able to drink without looking over his shoulder, worrying.

Steve quit after a couple beers, saying that one of them would have to be able to walk home and then go to work in the morning, but Bucky had a good time, and Steve was smiling watching him cut up.

And when Bucky stumbled on the way home, it was good that he still hadn't grown all the way into his gangly body yet, so that Steve could help support his weight without getting too winded.

Steve deposited him, still dressed, on his bed and laughed when Bucky groaned, a headache already starting to set in.

But it had still been worth it.

* * *

When Natalia Romanova turned eighteen, she didn't know she had.

She was in deep cover as a ballerina, trying to get close to one of the patrons of the company who had an eye for dancers.

That evening, she had given one of her best performances, and he had finally approached her.

She allowed him to drape her fur around her shoulders, walking shyly at his side out of the theatre and into his waiting car.

Over dinner, she giggled and smiled and worked her magic, and when he asked her back to his place afterwards, she forced a blush on her face and nodded.

As he relaxed into his bed with her, she seized her opportunity, and jammed the needle containing truth serum that she'd been carrying around for weeks into his neck.

Quickly, she'd extracted the information her handlers wanted and then left, leaving no trace behind.

Back at her extraction point, they had merely acknowledged her success and told her to return to base to await her next mission before leaving, forcing her to find her own ride back.

* * *

When Nick Fury turned eighteen, he was on the road.

He'd managed to make his way through three of the elimination rounds already, and he was still steadily working his way up the bracket in his weight class.

Boxing was his passion, what he had been training for since he had thrown his first punch at another guy at school.

They'd said then that fighting wasn't constructive, but his father had known a guy who knew a guy who owned a gym and was willing to work with Nick, and he hadn't looked back since.

So that was how he came to spend the better part of his eighteenth birthday in the ring, fighting and grinning around his mouthpiece.

And then in the evening, his parents took him out to dinner, and he allowed himself to have steak _and_ cake, since his next match wasn't for a week.

His mother smiled at him, and his father was proud, and Nick was happy.

* * *

When Phil Coulson turned eighteen, it was the middle of the week in the fall of his senior year, and he wouldn't have dreamed of skipping school.

So he went, and his friends congratulated him, but it was a normal day, really.

And he wasn't expecting much; his grandparents had been raising him, and they'd had to keep working far longer than they should have just to support him.

But they refused to let him get a job, and so he tried to make things as easy for them as possible.

They surprised him on his birthday, though, by taking him out to dinner. And then his grandmother gave him a hand-knitted sweater that she'd somehow managed to make without him noticing. Which meant that she must have stayed up late in the evenings after he'd gone to bed to make it.

He hugged her especially hard, and told them both that he loved them very much.

And it was a great day for Phil. Exactly how he would have wanted to spend his day if he'd been able to choose.

* * *

When Jim Rhodes turned eighteen, he was fortunate enough to have a birthday on a weekend.

There was a party, a pool party, since it was just warm enough to have one. It was spring, and senior year was almost over, and still most of his friends didn't seem to realize that they were soon going to go their separate ways.

But Jim knew, and so he hung back a little, watching the others interact, absently accepting birthday greetings whenever someone found his hiding place in the shadows next to the wall.

After a while, he finally decided that he may as well enjoy the camaraderie while he still had it, and so he dropped his t-shirt on a chair and cannonballed into the pool, splashing a group of girls hanging out near the edge with their feet in the water.

They shrieked, and one of their boyfriends (his name was probably Mark, but Jim wasn't sure) splashed Jim back, and he ducked underwater to avoid the spray.

When he resurfaced, a full-out water war had begun, and Jim quickly joined in on the fun.

And later, when all his friends had left and Jim had helped clear up the debris from the party, he went to bed happy.

Because even though they would still be going in different directions, to different schools, they'd still have the memories.

* * *

When Bruce Banner turned eighteen, he didn't celebrate.

He was too busy moving.

He'd been planning this for months, having gotten a shitty job after school, helping the janitorial staff (somebody had just retired, and it was cheaper to hire a student; Bruce didn't know, didn't care), so he could afford his own place.

So, as soon as he finished work, he swung by the liquor store to grab the boxes they kept for people to use, and headed home.

Quickly packing everything up and putting it in the piece of junk car he'd purchased that morning before school, he waited with his mother until his father came home.

Then he calmly kissed his mother's cheek and told his father he was moving out.

His father informed him that it wouldn't be a loss. Bruce took this with a shrug, heading out to his car and to his new place.

He would miss his mother, certainly, but she would be better off without him around. His father did not actively dislike her, as he did Bruce.

After he carried his few boxes into the already-furnished apartment, he headed to the grocery store for a few things, and stood in front of the bakery display debating with himself before selecting a small, pre-made cake and taking it home.

He didn't bother with candles or song or any ceremony, just dug in after his dinner of a tuna fish sandwich.

And because he didn't have to go to bed with the sounds of his father's abuse ringing in his ears, it was a pretty good day overall.

* * *

When Betty Ross turned eighteen, it was very late summer, just before her senior year began. Her father had gotten the day off, and her parents took her away from the base, into town, for the day.

First they shopped, and her father patiently waited while her mother encouraged Betty to try on clothing, and finally it was her father who wrote the check for Betty's first professional suit.

After they put the garment bag in the car, they went to lunch, where Betty's father actually made an effort to pay attention to her, asking about her reading, her friends, her plans for senior year.

Betty's mother smiled, pleased to see that they were getting along. That they were actually interacting for once.

They window-shopped for a while before going to Betty's favorite ice cream parlor, and her mother even got a small cup of vanilla, which she rarely did.

When they got back to the base, her parents gave her a small, wrapped box. It was a beautiful necklace, small and dainty.

Betty's father fastened the chain for her, and then they called it a day, as he had to be up before the sun the next morning for a new round of weapons testing.

* * *

When Tony Stark turned eighteen, he spent most of the day in a drunken haze.

He'd already graduated from MIT, but his father refused to employ him until he was an adult.

So Tony had been at loose ends for a while. And that meant he spent the day in true Tony style, the way he usually did, waking up late and briefly putting in some work on his new project—an AI—before going out.

Tony's favorite bar was rarely crowded, and although the employees surely knew who he was (and that he was underage), they never refused him service.

And there was usually a woman or two present, interested enough to overlook any age difference.

So Tony didn't intend any deviation to his regular routine. He would deal with his father the next day, and his mother was 'deeply sorry, but her presence was absolutely required at a meeting of the Board of Directors of her charity', but 'did he want to go to New York with her?'

She was _so_ sorry for missing his birthday.

But, about four in the afternoon, Rhodey stormed through the door of the bar in his dress blues, paid Tony's tab, and hustled Tony out the door with a hand on his upper arm in a bruising grip.

He didn't speak to Tony, just took him home and stuck him in bed.

Despite himself, Tony fell asleep.

And when he woke up, _mostly_ sober and _definitely_ hungover, just after eleven that evening, Rhodey took him down the street for a cheeseburger and a talk. He'd gotten the day off special from the base to come see Tony, been saving up his leave for a couple months, and here Tony was being an asshole and wasting his time away. Had anything changed?

Tony ate, but let Rhodey's words go in one ear and out the other.

After Rhodey left, needing to get back to the base, Tony went home. It wouldn't do for him to face his father in the morning drunk, not if he wanted the job.

* * *

When Clint Barton turned eighteen, he was on his own.

If he hadn't seen a newspaper, he wouldn't have known the date. He'd left the circus a while back, after Barney had gone and nobody was who they were supposed to be anymore.

Especially not Clint.

But he saw the newspaper, saw the date, and figured what the hell. He went and scraped and did the few odd jobs people offered him so he could subsist, collecting his meager wages.

And at the end of the day, instead of buying himself something to eat, something that would only last as long as he could make it last (which, given his hunger lately, wasn't long—apparently he was still growing), he paid for a good polishing rag and a bottle of the fancy expensive polish at the store instead.

That evening, after it was dark and everybody was in their home, Clint tucked one leg under him in the corner of the abandoned house he had appropriated as his own, and squinted at his bow in the darkness.

Deciding that since it was a special occasion, he could sacrifice a little battery power in his flashlight, he switched it on for a few minutes, long enough to finish the job and take a few seconds to admire the gleam of the wooden bow he had prized since he was first given it.

He had since worked his way up to more modern bows, metal and plastic and synthetic bowstring, but this one was his pride and joy.

All finished, he carefully packed everything away and pulled his jacket over him, tucking an arm under his head to use as a pillow.

Overall, it hadn't been such a bad day.

* * *

When Virginia Potts turned eighteen, she was already in college, living in the dorm, on her own.

She had made a few friends among the other serious students, but it was almost midterms and everyone was busy studying.

Planning out her schedule weeks in advance, she had set aside some time on her birthday to pick out a movie and just relax.

She'd even gotten herself a pint of ice cream to enjoy while she watched, after her dinner. Well, it was rather early for dinner, but the university didn't let you take food out of the student union and she wanted a hot meal, so she ate before the cafeteria got crowded.

Her movie selection was on just the proper side of mind-numbing, intriguing enough to hold her interest but easy enough to follow that she could disengage her brain for a while.

After the end credits had rolled and she'd rewound the tape, putting it back in its box to return to the video rental store tomorrow, she reviewed her plans for the next day. She threw in an extra thirty minutes at the gym; she could pretend that the calories didn't count on her birthday all she liked, but she'd wake up tomorrow in the real world.

Everything she could conceivably do completed, she looked at the clock and sighed.

If her mother hadn't called by this late at night, then she wasn't going to. Virginia resigned herself to a harried phone call or perhaps just a card that would arrive a few days later.

She would forgive her mother—she always did—but it would be so nice to have her just remember something every once in a while.

But she had a long day ahead of her, so she finished up her nightly routine and got into bed, carefully clearing her mind so that she could fall asleep.

* * *

When Maria Hill turned eighteen, she enlisted.

She'd finished high school just a few weeks before, but when all of her peers were enrolling in college, she'd never cared to join their ranks.

The Marine Corps recruiter had passed through town a few months prior, and after just one quick conversation with him, Maria was hooked.

She'd been planning to enlist ever since then, but she hadn't actually told her family yet. She didn't imagine that they would protest too much, though; she was the second oldest of quite a few and when her older brother had turned eighteen, he'd moved out and gotten a job to support himself.

So sure, joining up was a bit more extreme, but she still was accomplishing the same objective: making it so that her parents had one less mouth to feed.

After she'd signed the papers and agreed to report to boot camp that weekend, she went home.

Her mother had baked a birthday cake, and after Maria had dutifully endured their off-key singing and blown out the candles, she quietly told her parents what she had done.

As she had expected, they didn't protest, but she was surprised by her mother's reaction. She actually teared up and told Maria how proud she was.

Her siblings clamored to know what was going on, what Maria meant, and they all seemed impressed that Maria was going to be a soldier, even her typically teenage sister.

It was a good day, and she really appreciated that nobody had attempted to belittle her choice.

Because it had been her decision to make.

* * *

When Jane Foster turned eighteen, her parents held her birthday present hostage all day.

They'd given her the new portable telescope she wanted that morning, and even though she couldn't see much of anything with it during the daylight hours, she still wanted to get outside and observe.

But her parents allowed her to open it, and then her father, laughing, snatched it back before she could head outdoors with it under her arm.

She pouted a little, but then they surprised her with a trip to the observatory an hour and a half away and even let her pick the music in the car on the way, which was new.

At the observatory, though, Jane knew more than the guide, and so she quickly became bored. But several of the other tourists picked up on the fact that she knew what she was talking about, and they began directing their questions to her instead of the guide. He conceded gracefully, speaking to Jane's smiling parents about how she knew so much.

And after that, back in town, they all went to her favorite restaurant, where they had apparently conspired to stash her birthday cookie (it was a family tradition).

Then, finally, it was getting close to dark, and they watched her bundling up and packing a bag to take out with her, carefully tucking the telescope her father had returned to her into its carrying case and sliding the strap over her shoulder.

Outside, in a clear area with a great view of the sky, Jane pulled her sleeping bag a little tighter around her shoulders and smiled.

It had been a good day.

* * *

When Darcy Lewis turned eighteen, she skipped school and her mother called in sick to work.

Then they took the stack of DVDs they had rented the day before, the junk food they'd purchased, and settled into opposite sides of the couch in their pajamas to have a movie marathon.

They scarcely moved all day, only stopping to take periodic bathroom breaks and when Darcy had to go wash the chocolate smear off her face, giggling.

Laughing and screaming things at the screen, they enjoyed each other's company and the general spirit of the day, laziness.

Close to dinnertime, Darcy's mother ordered pizza and took the ice cream cake out of the fridge.

They paused the movie long enough to clear out the piles of dishes and trash that had accumulated during the day and pay the delivery boy, before settling back onto the couch under a blanket, fighting viciously over it, almost spilling their pizza several times over.

When the pizza was done, they sliced the cake and Darcy's mother insisted on singing to her in her loudest, most off-key voice while Darcy tried valiantly not to laugh.

And then that evening they cleaned up, piled the videos by the front door to return in the morning, and hugged tightly before they went to bed.

There were no presents; the movie rentals and junk food meant that Darcy's mother would have to stay overtime at work for at least a week, but it was the day Darcy wanted. She could have gotten presents but gone to school and not had as much fun with her mother as she'd had.

And that was what made it her best birthday ever.

* * *

**Brief note on a couple things: Natasha is, in comics canon, about 10 years younger than Steve. And I went with that date as far as placing her in chronological order, since I'm not sure what the hell they're doing with her in movie-verse.**

**And Bruce's story. The basic consensus is that his dad's an asshat, and usually it's that his dad killed his mom when Bruce was pretty young, but that seemed a little _too_ depressing for this piece, so I kind of made up some slightly-less-depressing shit.**

**Reviews are always fun!**


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